


In Style

by shinyopals



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Bodyswap, But he is beginning to figure it out, During Canon, Fluff, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19465303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyopals/pseuds/shinyopals
Summary: ‘You can’t get kidnapped by the forces of Hell looking like that!’ insists Crowley. ‘I have certain standards to maintain!’Letting someone else drive your body is weird enough without them accidentally ruining your look. Luckily Crowley's around to fix things.





	In Style

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely unrelated to my [other Good Omens fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228999), despite being set in the same period of time. I JUST REALLY LIKE BODYSWAP SHENANIGANS AND AZIRAPHALE GETTING WITH THE PROGRAM OK.

After six thousand years of knowing each other, of working together and apart, sometimes aligned on one goal, sometimes arguing over different ones, it can feel to Crowley like he and Aziraphale know each other too well. He’s a demon, a representative of Hell, and yet this angel knows his every weak spot, can pinpoint it with a sharpness that leaves Crowley floundering. Sometimes he thinks he should withdraw, build up barriers, protect himself. (He sees Aziraphale doing it, after all, shielding himself in “my side” and “Heaven’s orders” and “we can’t”.) Sometimes he thinks there’s nothing they don’t understand about one another.

This is not one of those times.

‘What. Have. You. Done.’

Aziraphale wrings his hands. ‘It was an accident! I just wanted to just- to wash, and to tidy up, and it’s so… sticky-uppy.’

‘ _It’s not sticky-uppy any more_ ,’ hisses Crowley.

The problem is that this body doesn’t really hiss, not properly.

The second problem is that this body is three inches shorter than he’s used to, and a beacon of angelic light, both facts that make intimidating anyone a challenge.

The third problem is that the person he’s trying to intimidate looks like _him_ , except _backwards_ , and despite the fact that they’ve been switched for several hours now while they perfect their plan, Crowley has yet to come to terms with the disconcerting revelation that he has the least symmetrical face in the entirety of the universe.

‘You look so… wrong,’ he grumbles.

Aziraphale, wearing Crowley’s body, pats at his hair ineffectually. 

It had been perfectly styled, of course. 

Now it is not. 

Now it’s floppy. And sad. And damp.

‘Well you’ll be pleased to know you can wash, if you want,’ Aziraphale says with a remarkable amount of cheek for someone who’s just ruined what is, in Crowley’s mind, a piece of art. ‘My hair isn’t nearly so high maintenance, so it can survive getting wet.’

‘You can’t get kidnapped by the forces of Hell looking like that!’ insists Crowley. ‘I have certain standards to maintain!’

‘I know,’ says Aziraphale complacently. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let them see you anything less than your usual stylish self.’

‘Hmph,’ says Crowley, slightly mollified.

‘After all,’ adds Aziraphale with asperity, now turning back to the bathroom mirror and prodding vaguely at his borrowed hair, ‘obviously your hair looking good is of far greater importance than your trial for treason.’

‘I’m glad you understand, angel,’ says Crowley. ‘And it does look good. Normally.’

They catch each other’s eye in the mirror, and play a brief game of chicken into the silence to see who’s going to back down first.

Crowley would win, except then Aziraphale attempts to miracle the hair he has stolen and abused into Crowley’s usual style. Suddenly, it’s sticking outwards in a frizzy halo, like he’s been electrocuted. Crowley makes a panicked noise in his throat which sounds exactly like Aziraphale sounded that one time the Ritz had brought out a cheese plate without any stilton. 

Possibly recognising this is serious, Aziraphale drops his hands.

‘Er,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to help me.’

‘Sit,’ orders Crowley, in a tone that brooks no argument. Or at least, it would brook no argument, if he weren’t currently wearing an angel. As it is, he’s pretty sure it comes out petulant. On the whole, Crowley has been doing quite well at being Aziraphale given the limited practice time he’s had, but he’s still struggling to do the thing Aziraphale does with his face that makes the entire universe bow to his whim. (Crowley’s very suspicious that that’s because it only works on him, but he doesn’t have the time right now to dedicate to dealing with that.)

There’s suddenly a stool behind Aziraphale. Aziraphale sits. He looks like he’s trying not to giggle.

Crowley scowls at him, then steps in front to size up the problem. After being soaked by a fire hose, nearly burned in the Bentley, and now mistreated by Aziraphale, it’s been a rough day for his hair, so he’s got to approach this with care. He doesn’t tend to miracle it on a daily basis. Changing the length every now and again is one thing, but daily styling builds up a lot of concentrated demonic energy in a very small area. It dries out his scalp terribly. He’d never been so happy as when the humans had invented conditioner. Still, Aziraphale has caused something of an emergency. A quick miracle to get rid of most of the static is clearly his only hope. 

That done, he reaches out to smooth his hair down with his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes _flutter_ , before reopening.

 _Oh,_ thinks Crowley, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He hasn’t thought this through. It’s the single greatest idea he’s ever had, and possibly also the worst, since he immediately knows he’s going to fixate on this for a while. He’s been so focused on how ridiculous the angel looks, and sorting out the situation, that he’s half forgotten it’s not his own head he’s laying his hands on. Half forgotten until this very moment that is. He thinks Aziraphale had forgotten too, distracted by their strange reflections and the stress of perhaps the longest day of their lives.

Impossible to keep forgetting, now his hands are threaded through Aziraphale’s hair.

But, if not now, then when? It might be their last hours alive.

He curls his fingers around, smoothing down the shorter bits around the sides and back. They’re already mostly fine and don’t really need it, but he doesn’t care. What he’s fascinated by is the way Aziraphale has gone from trying-not-to-laugh to his eyes being fixed somewhere around the bow tie Crowley’s wearing, trying-not-to-look-like-he’s-actually-enjoying-this. 

It’s a look Crowley recognises extremely well, for all that he’s never seen it on his own features. Lips ever so slightly pinched together. The slightly distant gaze of someone who’s trying to talk himself out of temptation. It’s a bit strange to see with yellow snake-eyes. He’s trying to reconcile the Aziraphale he adores with the demonic face in front of him.

Still. He’s probably going to try and convince Aziraphale that it takes him an hour to do his hair properly.

He continues combing his fingers through his hair, oh-so-gently.

‘Gotta put some volume back into it, angel,’ he says. He tells himself the reason his voice sounds all weird and dry is because it’s the wrong vocal chords. 

‘Of- of course,’ says Aziraphale.

By Crowley’s estimates, he’s got about three seconds before Aziraphale gives in and-

Aziraphale’s eyes shut, and stay shut. Crowley grins. That was quick. 

A few more passes of his hands, fingers running gently over Aziraphale’s scalp, one “accidentally” brushing an ear, and there’s a faint smile and maybe just the slightest trace of pink on Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

Crowley could stay there forever, he really could, but he knows he’s on borrowed time. Heaven and Hell might arrive at any moment to attack them. He still needs to talk Aziraphale through what to expect down there. He’s tired. He needs a drink. They both do.

And even ignoring that, eventually Aziraphale will open his eyes and crossly insist Crowley must be finished by now, and what _will_ their superiors think, and Crowley will have to scrabble to regain ground. That’s the game they play, after all. He’ll gladly play forever, for moments like these, and for the hope that one day Aziraphale catches up. To be rebuffed too often might break his heart, though, and he’s had it a lot lately. And now he’s got the angel _in his flat, wearing his body_. He shouldn’t push his luck.

He’s definitely pushed his luck by the time he reaches for his hair wax, but Aziraphale hasn’t pushed him away yet. Instead he’s softened under Crowley’s touch, leaning into his hands, ever so slightly, not even opening his eyes. It’s the same look he wears when he’s just tasted something particularly, as he calls it, “scrumptious”. Something inside of Crowley is hammering like mad at being able to induce this particular expression.

‘Right, just got to- sort this out- let me know if it pulls-’ he mutters. He wishes Aziraphale looked like himself. He suits blond curls and blue eyes and soft cheeks. His facial expressions on Crowley’s face create a strange mirror to look into.

‘Mmm,’ agrees Aziraphale.

Applying the hair wax is slightly less relaxing since, well, Crowley is actually here to do a job, and that job is to make himself look good. Or rather, make Aziraphale look like him, looking good. It’s odd to do backwards, but no less so than everything else about the situation.

Then, too soon, he’s finished. He lets his wrists rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders for just a little longer, pretending.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘All done. You look very demonly. Completely ev-’

He breaks off because Aziraphale raises one hand to Crowley’s and holds it, fingers curled around in a way that cannot possibly even be pretended to be accidental.

Crowley’s been preparing a number of remarks to deal with the aftermath, both to try and shock a real proper blush out of Aziraphale, and to move them on. If Aziraphale is busy being cross, he won’t have to actually admit he enjoyed every moment of what’s just passed. It’s part of the game. It’s practically the very first rule. It saves them both from being too honest. 

_”What’s a bit of light hair touching between friends?”_ he’d considered. 

Or: _“I can’t help but notice how great my hair is. How do you look at me all day without being filled with awe?”_

Or: _“If you ruin it again I’m shaving all of yours off.”_

Since Aziraphale is now holding his hand and staring up at him with wide eyes - no trace of a blush, no hesitation - Crowley can articulate exactly none of these. He makes a vaguely questioning noise in a throat that’s suddenly as dry as the Sahara.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ says Aziraphale. ‘That was so very lovely. I could have sat here all night.’

 _This isn’t how it goes._

This is a new game. 

Crowley doesn’t know the rules. 

He doesn’t know the rules and he doesn’t know what to say and this is what he’s wanted from Aziraphale for six thousand years but what if it all goes wrong and he says the wrong thing and ruins it and what if Aziraphale doesn’t even mean that anyway and what if and what if and what if-

‘Well. We might die today. Couldn’t have me dying looking like that. I’d never live it down.’

Inwardly he screams an entire thesaurus of curses at himself.

Aziraphale _smiles_ , the bastard, like he knows the rules and he’s not telling. ‘We won’t die,’ he says. ‘Neither Heaven nor Hell knows anything about what’s truly important.’ Then he moves Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kisses the thumb, just ever so quick, every so simple, before letting it fall. He’s not smiling now: instead he’s watching Crowley openly, nothing but sincerity on his face. ‘They don’t understand humanity. They don’t understand love. They don’t understand us.’

Crowley would dearly love to ask the question “ _Where the FUCK has this come from?_ ” but he can’t. He truly can’t. All he can do his gape at Aziraphale, who’s just looking at him.

‘Right,’ he says at last. It’s a good thing he doesn’t need to breathe because he’s forgotten how. ‘This is-’

Only now he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

_“This is new.”_

_“So, when you say “love” and “us” in almost the same sentence, do you mean…?”_

_“I love you more than anything.”_

“This is-’ he tries again. The serpent-yellow eyes looking up at him are disconcertingly open, like a mirror but backwards. ‘This is _weird_ , angel, sorry, but- you’re me. I can’t… say things when you look like that. I can’t do this now now. Please. Later. _Please._ ’ He’s an idiot. He’s a prize idiot. He’s been waiting millennia and- He hates his brain. He hates the swap. He hates-

Then Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle fondly, rather than teasingly. Of course he would understand. ‘Another time, then,’ he says. He stands. He extends a hand which Crowley dumbly takes. ‘Let’s have a drink. If we’re to be executed as traitors, we might as well enjoy the next few hours.’

‘At least your hair’s going to look great for it,’ he says, because he can’t help himself. Aziraphale gives him a _look_ , which feels like steady ground again. Still, he leads Crowley out into the rest of the flat, his hand cool but firm, and Crowley follows him, just like he knows he always will.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://shinyopals.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
